


And Beyond

by Ladycat



Series: Happy Endings [11]
Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike doesn't bother looking away from the telly when the door opened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Beyond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kita (thekita)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekita/gifts).



Spike doesn't bother looking away from the telly when the door opens. Brian Williams is really on his game tonight, so much better than that Couric bint, all blonde hair and fake, sparkling smiles. If Spike's in the mood for a little death and devastation, he prefers it delivered in a mellow tone, hinting at far away gravitas this younger generation can't nearly manage.

Except the seconds tick by. There's no familiar demand that Spike come away and deal with whatever new domestic crisis Connor's on about this time. No rambling thoughts on dinner, on whether they should hunt. Hell, there's not even any pretty boys sliding into his lap.

That last one isn't a fantasy, of course, but it's middle of the semester. Connor's actually focusing on work which means less time for playing. Spike's learning to deal. Mostly. Sort of.

A few more seconds tally up into minutes and finally, Spike has to look. Just a second, just to—

He's on his feet in a flash, hurrying over to the kitchen table where Connor's sitting, slumped and so draped in despair Spike doesn't know how he didn't _smell_ it, the moment Connor came home. "Here, now," he murmurs, as soft as he used to for Dru, lost in her little girl ramblings, settling into the nearest chair, close but not quite touching. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

There're Angel comparisons floating around in his brain, automatic observations given a knife's fine edge. He pushes them away impatiently: whatever this is, Connor's truly upset. The sadness tastes like blackberries not quite ripe, neither green nor sour but somehow both mixed up together.

Connor rests his forehead on his palms, blocking his face from sight. "Nothing. It's not important."

"Bollocks. Connor, love, tell me. Please." It's easy to beg, for him, too many year's sitting at another's bedside, their pain eating away everything _but_. Spike's always used the tools at hand. "Did something happen at school? That idiot teacher—the one that's always trying to pick your brain, did he—"

"No! It's not—it's nothing." Connor sounds like a teenager on some silly show, a distillation of reticent adolescence. He sounds _mulish._

He's never sounded mulish before. Stubborn, yes. Whining, bloody hell yes. But mulish?

The timing still feels off but Spike doesn't care. He hasn't _got_ any more tools, and Connor's distress is getting stronger, tightening his shoulders like he'll use them to block out the sound of everything around him. So Spike reaches: he touches, skimming his hand along Connor's arm, brushing against his curled fingers, down the shadowed crook of his elbow, then up again to those frighteningly tense shoulders.

He wishes he had warmth. A human's warmth. That's what Connor needs, and no matter how bitter it leaves him, Spike knows it's true. Blood will always remain a chasm between them, no matter how much they both wish it didn’t.

He can feel his eyes pricking even though he's no idea why. "Connor, _please._ If you don't tell me what the buggering hell is wrong I'm going to _smack_ you."

"There—there was a girl. She was in my classes." The words come slowly, haltingly. Spike doesn't interrupt no matter how long the spaces in between. "All my classes, actually, and most of the ones last semester two. She was... nice. Sweet. She liked me."

Jealousy surges and then dies: that's not what Connor's tiny, trembling smile means.

"We would trade notes, if one of us was out. Mostly me, but she never asked why. She just— _smiled,_ and gave them to me. I didn't even have to ask."

He knows where the story's going, now. Closing his eyes, Spike hums something low, crooning on a level that Connor won't really hear, but will hopefully feel.

"She went hiking this weekend, and... " Breath hitching, Connor looks up abruptly. His eyes are wet, blue fading back to nothing like all the pigment's washing away. "It's stupid. Why is it so _stupid?_ It wasn't so somebody could eat, or because that's just what some things _do,_ mischief that doesn't care if it kills. She just _fell._ Nobody pushed her, and nobody—nobody gained anything, nobody cared. She just _fell."_

Spike opens his arms. It's all he can do, pressing his own tears into mouse-brown hair that smells of life, of pounding blood no vampire could ever truly leave behind, Peter Pan's shadow, sewn to their feet.

Connor cries like he's the one always rushing off to Never Never Land, deep sobs that pull up from his chest. It has to hurt. No, Spike _knows_ it hurts: he's sobbed like this. Everyone has.

It's the moment children stop being children. When they realize life, for all it's whimsical glory and brutal, bloody pain, just isn't fucking fair. 

That you have to hold on to the good moments, because there's nothing else.

So Spike holds him, stroking his hair and whispering words neither of them understand, holding steady while this boy, this fragile boy who normally seems cut from granite, sobs out his broken heart.

"I should. I need to do something." Connor's past the hiccupping stage, by now, but the words still come out with more syllables than they should. "For—I met them. They're local, so they always—she used to—"

Spike has been to more funerals than he'll ever tell. So has William, for that matter. "We've got everything here. I'll make something."

"Make?" Connor sits up—slow, like he's unsure of how to move his bones—and blinks. He looks all of five years old, and Spike mourns for the childhood this boy has never had. Of all the ones Spike's been with, all his many loves, Connor's the only one who's never known true innocence.

So it hurts him more.

"Yeah, love, make. You want to help me? It's not much, just a casserole." One that's hearty, but can stay out for a while without fussing over it. Easy to reheat, but decent enough cold. It's his mother's favorite recipe. He's not telling Connor that, though, no matter how befuddled he looks. "It'll take a little over an hour. That enough time?"

"Why are you—" Connor swallows, turning away. "Sorry."

Spike lets it go. Who can see lines, with eyes so blurred by tears? "Stuff it. Nothing to be sorry about. Now, come on. You get the pasta out, and I'll start browning the meat. Come on, go get it."

Connor still walks mechanically, his body distanced by the pain. But he is walking, shuffling movements growing more sure as he gets this ingredient and that, mutely obedient to Spike's direction. In the end, Connor makes most of the bloody thing—best to keep him active.

"Look," Spike says, shrugging on his coat while Connor putters with his keys, trying to find the stupid fob he always loses. "Don't tell this to _anyone,_ all right? No one."

That gets Connor's attention. "Okay," he says slowly. "I won't."

"There's this book. Why bad things happen to good people, or something. It's—I've got it. If you want." Spike shrugs. He doesn't know why he's offering, really. Connor isn't bookish, not like Spike was once upon a different life, and he's bloody well not spiritual. But then, he's never needed to be. Tigers don't need solace. "It might help."

Connor can still move so _fast,_ darting over to press hard, fierce kisses that taste more of pain than a willingness to share. Spike doesn't give a damn—Connor's coming to him, willingly, and that's the best thing that's happened all day. So he kisses back, just as hard and raw.

They're panting when Connor finally pulls away, rough inhalations that echo oddly in Connor's fragile, so breakable chest. "I'd like that."

"It won't make it less stupid." Spike says stupid because it's Connor's word. It's not the right word, but it's better than _painful._ They're used to pain, both of them. This—this is worse.

"I know." Connor looks at him, clear and direct like he's witchy Willow, saying things without words. For once, Spike thinks he understands. "Thanks, Spike."

"Well, grab your treat. It's dark enough, so I'll drive."

"No, you won't, you don't know the way."

"If you think I'm letting you behind the bloody wheel when you're like this, you're delusional. It's L.A. traffic! You'll tell me where to go, or I'll use the silly Tom-thing your Da got us."

"You mean you've figured it out how to use it?"

"No! That is, _yes,_ I have, so get in the passenger side, you. I am not kidding, you brat, away from the wheel!"

They don't tussle, but it's a near thing. Connor fumes in the passenger side, face turned to the glass the whole trip, biting out directions only when he has to. They get lost three times.

There's a crowd when they finally arrive.

It actually reassures Spike, who glances down the gear shift, where his right hand's been the whole trip. Connor's nails are dirty, bitten down to the quick. The beds are flared white with tension: he hasn't let go the entire time.

"We don't have to do this now," Spike says.

"Yeah. We do. Just—stay close to me, okay?"

When Connor looks at him, Spike doesn't see hidden longing for warmth between their palms. He just sees—Connor. Looking at him. It's enough.

"Course, pet. I'm stuck on you like glue."


End file.
